


is your cup half-full or empty?

by godsensei



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Barista Lance (Voltron), Christmas, Christmas Party, Ex-military Shiro, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Karaoke, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Romance, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godsensei/pseuds/godsensei
Summary: “Hmm,” Lance replies, stepping back and making a show of looking Shiro up and down. Shiro lowers his eyes with him, looking down at the black of his loafers critically. Does he look bad? “Pea coat, briefcase, dark circles— you’d probably usually drink black tea, but you need something to keep you awake since it’s dark and gloomy and you’re bringing your work home with you.”Dark circles? Shiro rejects the urge to touch the soft spot underneath his eye, pursing his lips.“Relax, big guy, you’re still handsome,” the guy continues, and Shiro lets out a breath of a laugh at how straight-forward he is. “Find somewhere to sit and I’ll bring you something.”





	is your cup half-full or empty?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello @ohmyfrigg! I was chosen to be your Shance Secret Santa! You gave me a few prompts to choose from and I just had to go for the coffee shop prompt. This was a blast to write, and I hope you enjoy it as much I have. Since it’s Christmas, and this year has been a bit ridiculous for everyone, I wanted to keep it as ‘rom-com’ as possible. Also, the minimum was 2k, but I went a little overboard. I hope that’s alright!! Don’t forget to check out your bonus [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/kris.lynnn/playlist/7rRlW0vZDhjA57oEV7vb1M?si=9s3WCB_kSr2l-C8OtD9LVQ) based on the fic. Have a very Merry Christmas and a beautiful 2019.

It’s raining outside, the first time they meet.

Shiro has technically just gotten off of work, but he’s bringing work home with him again. He usually walks to the subway, briefcase attached to his hand, but he hadn’t thought to check the weather this morning. Fatigue makes his eyes feel heavy as he searches for shelter.

It’s a cold-deep-in-your-bones, freezing type of rain that only late November can muster. Five minutes in and Shiro is so bitterly chilled that the strip of light from the café is like a beacon, calling his name and luring him into what is undoubtedly blessed warmth.

A tinkling of a bell and he knows he’s right.

It feels like a Yankee Candle in here, and smells like one, too.

Shiro straightens himself out, pulling at his pea coat a few times to get rid of the water droplets still clinging to him for dear life. He takes a minute to observe the shop while he does. There isn’t anyone else in here, and the lighting is dim, but it’s warm, providing a cozy atmosphere.

Pastries and desserts line a glass container further in, probably the source of the scent, though he can smell the remnants of fresh coffee close by.

There’s a dark sign behind the counter, filled with rows of coffee combinations, smoothies, protein shakes, teas, sandwiches, and hot chocolates. It’s all hand-written, with little drawings and embellishments meant to make it their own.

“Hold on, I’m comin’!” A boyish voice calls from the open entryway that no doubt leads to the kitchen in the back. Shiro’s eyes dance downward, away from a drawing of a little cat in a Christmas hat, and he blinks at the youthful face that greets his vision.

Oh. The guy is probably a college kid, his haphazardly mussed hair and his clothes, which seem to hang from his frame just so, giving off that vibe. There’s an apron tied around his waist, and he’s wiping his long-fingered hands with it, gracing Shiro with a brazen grin.

Shiro reaches his hand up to mess with his own hair subconsciously.

“Cookies wait for no man,” the guy greets casually, and Shiro barely realized his attention zeroing in until the soft sounds of the café come back into focus.

He’s still standing by the door, it seems.

Swallowing, he makes his way over to the counter. He hadn’t initially come in for a coffee. But thinking about the long, miserable subway ride home to an equally dismal, quiet apartment has him scouring the board for a reason to stay.

“Haven’t seen you in here before,” the guy says, blue eyes shimmering mischief. “What can I get for you?”

Frankly, Shiro is having trouble focusing at all. His eyes fall to the nametag pinned to the guy’s apron. ‘ _Lance,_ ’ it reads. Fitting. His bright, blue gaze is piercing.

“Uh,” Shiro says, eloquently. He’s his own boss. He served in the military. There’s no reason for him to be so hesitant, and yet...

“Hmm,” Lance replies, stepping back and making a show of looking Shiro up and down. Shiro lowers his eyes with him, looking down at the black of his loafers critically. Does he look bad? “Pea coat, briefcase, dark circles— you’d probably usually drink black tea, but you need something to keep you awake since it’s dark and gloomy and you’re bringing your work home with you.”

Dark circles? Shiro rejects the urge to touch the soft spot underneath his eye, pursing his lips.

“Relax, big guy, you’re still handsome,” the guy continues, and Shiro lets out a breath of a laugh at how straight-forward he is. “Find somewhere to sit and I’ll bring you something.”

Normally, Shiro wouldn’t want someone to make his decisions for him (re: his own boss), but he’s cold and tired and it’s been a while since he let someone else do anything for him.

He finds a table close by, setting his briefcase in one of the empty chairs and hanging his pea coat on the back of it. Settling down, he loosens his tie, subtly watching the barista dance around the behind the counter.

Because that’s what he’s doing— dancing, that is. There’s soft Christmas music filtering in through the speakers on the ceiling, and Lance is making Shiro coffee as if he’s _meant_ put on a show. The tip jar _is_ pretty full.

He hip checks the mini-fridge shut after pulling some milk out, shimmying to _We Need A Little Christmas_ as he pours. He works the machine like he’s been doing it for years, which he very well could have.

Shiro huffs a laugh through his nose when Lance catches him watching and winks at him.

Sighing some of his tension away, he lets the sounds of the café drift to the back of his focus.

His company is his life, which is both his blessing and his curse. Although his business is wildly successful, and it helps a lot of people, he hasn’t seen anyone other than his co-workers in _weeks._ He misses hanging out with Keith, and making bad decisions with Allura (though their bad decisions are mostly bad at _their_ expense and not anyone else’s).

His home life is pretty much non-existent. He uses his loft for sleep and work away from work. He hasn’t actually been grocery shopping for literal months, fridge painfully bare. Thanksgiving had been a microwave meal as he poured over reports.

Rubbing his forehead, Shiro catches Lance moving around the counter in his peripheral vision.

He’s carrying _two_ drinks in two rather large mugs, both topped with a generous helping of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Lance casually takes the seat across from Shiro, smiling at him.

“Figured you could use some company,” he says, by way of greeting, extending Shiro’s drink across the table towards him. Shiro blinks at it.

“It’s a latte,” Lance explains, when Shiro stares at it a little too long.

“...Looks good.”

“Woah! Don’t sound so excited. You’ll scare my other customers away!”

Shiro looks up, and Lance is trying not to laugh.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, contrite. He grins apologetically. “It’s been a long day.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Lance says. He sounds lyrical with every word he says.

Shiro blows at the liquid peeking out underneath the whipped cream, and takes a sip.

It’s a burst of rich flavor, coupled with just the right amount of sweet, and he makes a pleased noise without permission, licking the whipped cream from his upper lip.

“That’s… really good,” he admits, taking another drink. It warms him inside-out, shaking the rest of the cold away.

“I’ve been told I make a pretty damn good coffee.” Lance shrugs and rolls his eyes up to the sky as if thanking God for making him so talented.

“Can’t disagree.”

“So… what do you do, hotshot?” Lance asks, eyes almost crossing as he looks down at his own drink. His lips round out, cheeks puffing slightly as he blows the steam away from the cup rim. The whipped cream moves slightly with it. He closes his eyes and hums as he takes a sip, his long, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones.

“I, uh…,” Shiro struggles to begin, eyes drawn against his will, “own a company designing and producing advanced prostheses.”

Shiro (reluctantly) tears his eyes away to look at his own cup of frankly _illegal_ coffee. (It’s so, _so_ damn good.)

“Woah! Seriously? That’s awesome!” Lance’s enthusiasm startles, but warms Shiro. He seems genuinely awed by the concept. “How’d you get into _that?_ ”

Shiro chuckles, placing his coffee back on the table. He uncuffs his shirt at the wrist, and folds the sleeve up, knocking on his right arm softly. It makes a dull, but telling noise.

“I was in the military— lost my arm in an explosion.” He’s not sure why he’s saying all this, or why he feels like he _can._ He doesn’t even _know_ Lance. But it’s surprisingly easy to put that aside. Shiro’s a good judge of character, for the most part.

“ _Dude,_ ” Lance says, reaching out slightly and then hesitating. He looks up at Shiro, hand still outstretched.

“Go ahead,” Shiro says, smiling, and Lance’s hand lands, feather-light, against the skin of his prosthetic.

“Feels so real,” he murmurs, ghosting his elegant fingers over artificial muscle and flesh. “I mean, _duh,_ it’s real… but— Can you… can you _feel_ that?” Lance asks, looking up at him with curiosity lighting up the blue of his eyes.

“I can,” Shiro confirms, watching Lance’s face shift through an alluring mix of microexpressions. He wears his heart in his eyes. Shiro finds that admirable.

“That’s _so_ awesome,” Lance whispers, turning Shiro’s arm over to trace the blue of his “veins”.

Shiro shivers, drawing at his coffee to distract himself. That’s one thing he can’t replicate ( _yet_ )— the rising of flesh when a chill takes over. Swallowing, he then clears his throat and Lance lets go of his arm with a jolt.

“Sorry, sorry! I get ahead of myself sometimes,” Lance says, lifting his shoulder flippantly. “But— man, that’s so cool! No wonder you work long hours.”

“It’s taxing, but worth it,” Shiro agrees, sipping his coffee again.

Lance puts his chin in his hand, watching him serenely.

“I used to want to be someone like that— a hero to the people.”

“Hero?” Shiro asks, feeling his cheeks warm.

“Don’t deny it— first you were in the military and then you dedicate all your time to helping others? Total saint. It’s okay to brag.”

“I don’t— that’s not why I do it,” Shiro says.

“Of course it’s not,” Lance agrees, “which makes it even more true.”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro holds a hand up with a laugh, just to get him to stop, “what stopped you, then?”

“Eh, I was never the best in school. Attention problems, you know? But my best friend, Hunk, he was always pretty driven. He knew what he wanted to do and he needed a partner, so I thought, ‘why not?’”

“You own this place?”

Lance nods. “Share it with Hunk. He makes the desserts and the menus, and I handle the coffee and the business plans.”

“That’s not anything to be ashamed of,” Shiro tries, and Lance laughs, bright and happy.

“No! It’s a great life. Not what I was dreaming of, but… I guess things happen for a reason, right?”

Lance takes another sip of his drink, smiling to himself. Shiro looks down at his mismatched hands, wondering what life would be like for him if he had a job as a co-owner of a café. Would he have a family by now? A partner, at least? Does Lance?

Speaking of...

“You’re definitely going to come back,” he announces and Shiro barks out a laugh at Lance’s brazen confidence. He’s something else, that’s for sure.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your coffee is already empty,” Lance points out.

Shiro looks down.

Hm. So it is.

Lance stands, jogging to the counter to grab him a card. He holds it out between two fingers for Shiro to take.

_Certified Coffee,_ it reads. Clever.

 

...

 

The sun is just coming up when Shiro decides he’s struggling to keep his eyes open a _little_ too much. A fairly large con of owning your own company, he supposes, is that sleep is a precious commodity and it’s in very short supply.

He was awake until the AM and also woke up in the AM, when the sky was still dark and his brain still mush. He’s usually a morning type of guy (gets a jog in every once in a while before work), but a continuous run of 3 to 4-hour sleeps each night and he’s _feeling it._

Unfortunately, his company can’t run without him. He’d drag himself home and never get out of bed otherwise. Sometimes he just wants to sleep for 10 years.

His mind draws him back to a subject he’s been struggling to forget for a _week_ now.

He _needs_ a coffee, and he’s been dying for a cup of that stuff from the café. _Maybe_ he’s thought about Lance’s undeniable presence a few times in between thinking about the coffee, but mostly it’s about the coffee.

He opens his phone, scrolling down his contact list to the newly added _Certified Coffee._ He wonders if they deliver. In a city like this, they’d be crazy not to.

The line rings a few times, and Shiro startles when a boyish voice answers. He didn’t expect _Lance_ to pick up.

“Uh,” he says, immediately squeezing his eyes shut after he says it. He just can’t get it together.

Lance laughs in his ear.

“That sounds familiar,” he says. “The hero from the other night, right?”

“Shiro,” he corrects, face warming.

“Shiro the Hero. Got it, buddy. I told you you would be coming back— did I not tell you you would be coming back?”

“If your head gets any larger, it just might burst,” Shiro snarks and Lance laughs again. He’s prone to that, it seems, but it’s a nice sound. It makes Shiro want to laugh right along with him, even if it’s as his own expense.

“What can I do for you, Shiro?” Lance asks.

He definitely does not want to admit to this ego-fed creature that he wants a coffee and that is has to be made exactly the way he made it the other night.

“I don’t want to tell you,” Shiro replies, scribbling a little star on a piece of paper as he talks.

“That sounds like a personal problem that you’re pinning on little ol’ me, and I expected a lot better from you.” He can imagine Lance smiling on the other end.

“I might… want some coffee,” he admits, ink spreading into the fibres of the paper as he presses down.

“Gotcha— and would this coffee have any other sort of identifying qualities?”

“Made by Lance,” Shiro answers, dropping the pen and waiting for the inevitable—

“Who could have foreseen this turn of events!?”

There it is.

“I could always go to Starbucks.”

“Please. I’ve got you hook, line, and sinker! I’ll need an address.”

Shiro rattles off his office address, reluctantly hanging up after getting a total and a time to expect his delivery.

God, it’s like he doesn’t even _need_ the coffee anymore. He feels more awake just from a _phone call._

Dragging a hand down his face, he allows himself to think about the last person who made him feel like this just by being around them. (Weirdly vulnerable, comfortable, rejuvenated simply by conversation.)

Adam had wanted to marry him, and he had wanted to marry Adam.

War takes and takes, but there are casualties from it even away from the violence and destruction.

He shakes his head, booting up his desktop to make the time go by just a little easier.

It takes no time at all before there’s a knock at his door, and he’s distractedly telling whoever it is to come in. He keeps his eyes trained on what he’s typing.

“What kinda greeting is this for your coffee God?”

Shiro tears his eyes away from the screen, blinking at Lance.

He didn’t expect Lance to deliver his coffee _personally._ How many dark circles will Lance be witness to before—

“I like your glasses,” Lance says, placing Shiro’s coffee on his desk and dropping a bag in front of him.

He’s still wearing his glasses. Right. His thick-framed, chunky Clark Kent glasses that help him work for longer hours without his eyes fatiguing. Those glasses.

Lance drops into the chair in front of his desk, kicking back comfortably.

“I don’t remember ordering any food,” Shiro says, going for the bag anyway. He opens it, the paper crinkling softly, and digs into it, pulling out a full, warm sandwich.

“No, but I know your type. All work, no food. My mama would be on you like white on rice. Breakfast— the food of champions.”

It’s a breakfast sandwich, toasted (in an alarming amount of butter) just the right amount, cheese melting out of the sides. His stomach growls from the smell alone.

“Hunk found out about you and wanted to cement our hold on you as a repeat customer.”

“Hunk made me this?”

“Sure did! You eat this, there’s no going back,” Lance warns.

Shiro takes a bite anyway.

“ _Gfod dyamn_ ,” he groans around a mouth full of food. It’s a mix of savory and sweet, some sort of fruity jam scraped across bread that’s just the right side of crunchy. There’s an egg, yolk cooked so it’s not too messy, and a warm piece of salty ham smothered in melted cheese. Shiro is _dying._

“I warned you,” Lance says, grinning at him.

He looks good, beautiful even, if Shiro can admit that to himself. As soon as Shiro saw him, he thought Lance could be described that way. It’s weird for Shiro, calling another man beautiful. Adam was handsome to him, and there are others that have been sexy, but never anyone he could describe as beautiful.

Lance has the longest, darkest lashes framing the most incredibly blue eyes. His skin is damn near flawless. He’s got a nose that’s straight all the way down and pointed at the end, and his bottom lip is plumper than his upper lip. His cheekbones alone should be illegal, his jaw bone strong. He’s broad at the shoulders, but his waist tapers down. There seems to be no end to his legs. They go on for days.

Yet here Shiro is, scarfing down a sandwich with abandon in what has to be a visceral display of ugliness. Lance is encouraging him to do it, so he doesn’t feel too bad about it, but still. Lance has seen him at his worst _twice_ now. He’s making a _terrible_ impression.

“Hunk is a culinary genius,” Shiro says seriously, after he wipes his mouth with a napkin. He’s finished half the sandwich already.

“I’ll give him your compliments,” Lance says, picking at the denim of his jacket distractedly. He looks up when he notices Shiro watching, flushing slightly and sitting up. “What are you up to today?”

Shiro sighs, grasping his coffee and taking a long sip before answering. (He’ll never get over how good it is.)

“Last minute, year-end agreements, plans for our company Christmas party, and a draft of a project proposal by one of my best associates.”

“You have a company Christmas party? Who started that?”

“I did,” Shiro admits. “I wanted my employees to feel valued and thought that a Christmas party would do just that. It’s not a bad time usually, but… maybe I should’ve just given them the bonus and called it a day. It gets a bit harder each year to accomplish.”

“What have you got planned so far?” Lance asks, leaning forward. He’s definitely inserting himself into Shiro’s business, but he doesn’t mind. Talking about it to someone outside of the business is refreshing.

“Hmm, let’s see—” Shiro says, shaking his computer mouse and drawing up his file for Christmas plans so far. He winces. He’s really behind this year.

“That’s not a good sign,” Lance laughs, making his way around Shiro’s desk. He leans over the back of Shiro’s chair, hovering near his ear.

People do this to him all the time, and likewise, he does this to a lot of people when they ask for his opinion but—

Lance’s breath cascades down the length of his neck, warm compared to the chill of the office. Scents from the café cling to him, enticing and warm.

Shiro breathes in, hyper aware of the space between them. His skin breaks out into chills, goosebumps rising along the back of his neck and down his arm.

“You don’t have a caterer,” Lance mentions, the timber of his voice dipping low, and Shiro shakes his head, both in agreeance and to clear it.  

“Last year’s was a disaster,” he murmurs, carefully watching Lance’s finger trace along the computer screen, moving down the list.

“Mm— _Rosie’s_ is pretty great, as far as catering goes.”

“Do you, uh—” he loses his train of thought when Lance braces a hand against the back of the chair, “Do _you_ cater?”

“We’ve done large deliveries, for schools and parties, but we don’t officially call it catering. Why? You want _us_ to do it?” Lance asks, and Shiro finally lets himself turn his head.

Hm.

Lance has the lightest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.  

“Think you’re up for the challenge?” he manages, meeting Lance’s eyes.

Lance’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, teeth dragging across the bottom lip, little indents forming as he moves.

“I’m up for anything,” he answers, and Shiro feels his stomach swoop. He’s sure that Lance isn’t just talking about cateri—

“Shiro— oh, whoops. Hello!”

Lance scrambles away from the chair, turning a suspicious shade of red as he stands ramrod straight.

Pidge is following him with her eyes, delight clear behind her shrewd gaze.

_Not good._

“Pidge. What did I say about knocking?”

“I was exempt from it because I’m the best employee you have and you’d die without me?”

He levels Pidge with an incredulous look.

“Ugh, fine— sorryIdidn’tknock. Who’s this?”

“Pidge, this is Lance. Lance, Pidge.”

“Whaddup?” Lance greets with a head nod and a two fingered wave.

“Pidge, this is… our caterer for the Christmas party.” Pidge nods, but he _knows_ what she’s thinking. He was friends with her long before he was her employer.

“Oh! Wait. God, we’re not going with Sal’s again, right? You’re not from Sal’s, are you?”

“Heck no! Who do you take me for? _Certified Coffee._ ”

“What? Sweet! My friend Hunk owns that place.”

“You know Hunk?” Lance asks, lighting up.

“Yeah, we have mutual interests. How do you know him?” Pidge asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Uh, I co-own the café? I’m his best friend! He hasn’t mentioned me?” Lance asks, obviously taking offense. His lower lip pokes out slightly as he pouts. Shiro has to look away.

“Oh, you’re _that_ Lance! Wow. I’ve heard a lot of things about you—”

“ALL GOOD THINGS, MOST LIKELY!” Lance interrupts, throwing a look towards Shiro, who has been following this unlikely conversation closely.

Fortunately for him, Pidge seems to take whatever hint Lance is giving her, because she nods after a moment.

“For the most part,” she answers, mysteriously.

“WELP, I gotta get back to the café. Shiro, uh— here.” He scribbles something on a post it note from Shiro’s desk. “Text me and we’ll set up your order, ok?”

He’s booking it before Shiro can even say anything.

Shiro looks at the paper. It’s another number— a personal cell.

His eyes slide over to Pidge, whose smile is becoming more and more devilish by the moment.

“No,” Shiro says.

“Does Allura know about your little crush?” Pidge gasps. “Does _Keith?_ ”

“There’s nothing there to talk about. Lance is just helping with the Christmas party,” Shiro tries to deflect, though the words feel sour on his tongue.

“I’m sure,” Pidge says, rolling her eyes. “We’re having dinner tonight to talk about this.”

“What? Sorry, Katie, I don’t have time for that right now.”

“ _Make_ time. If _I_ can, _you_ can,” Pidge orders, slapping a folder against his desk. “There’s the final project proposal.”

“You’re telling me to make more time, but you’re giving me more work?”

“Shiro, you’ve encouraged me through schooling, interviews, and tests— _don’t_ act like I’m stupid _now._ ”

Shiro puts his hands up, laughing.

“Alright, alright. I’ll do my best.”

“ _Shiro._ ”

“I’ll see what I can do, I promise,” he says, placating her. She deflates from her puffed up stance and smiles.

As she’s closing the door to his office, she says, “Don’t forget to contact Lance about quote-unquote _‘catering’._

 

...

 

There’s more work to be done, but there’s only so much he can do by himself. Going to dinner with his friends is important to him and he’s been putting it off long enough.

Their regular diner is cozy and quaint. The food isn’t the best in the world, but they’ve been coming here since Shiro was in college, so they’ve kept the tradition for nostalgia’s sake.

He opens the door, taking off his gloves and shoving them in his back pocket as he spots Katie waving at him from a corner booth. Keith looks up from his phone when he arrives at the table, scooting over so Shiro can sit.

“Glad you could join us,” Allura says from beside Pidge.

“Glad I could make it,” Shiro answers, taking a cursory glance over the menu. He always gets the same thing, but it feels weird not to at least look.

He’s not even there for five minutes before it starts.

“So… Pidge told us that you’re having a torrid affair with your caterer,” Allura says, her prim accent making it sound as dramatic as it should.

“Pidge,” Shiro reprimands, cutting to her with a stern look, but she just shrugs. “It’s not a torrid affair. I’m not— having an affair with my caterer.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Allura tries to soothe him. “In fact, I think it’s lovely! It’s been a while since you’ve dated and you deserve it.”

“We’re not. Dating. We _just met,_ ” Shiro emphasizes, briefly thanking their usual waitress for bringing him his customary water with lemon.

“But you like him?” Keith asks, cutting right to the point, predictably.

Shiro pauses to think about it. He’s attracted to Lance, that much he knows. He thinks Lance is funny and he’s comfortable around him, just in the span of time they’ve known each other. He feels kind of… giddy around him, but at the same time, completely at ease. It sounds crazy, since they’ve only known each other for a couple of days.

Thinking of Lance’s irrepressible laughter makes him feel like smiling just at the memory of it.

“Maybe,” he answers, ears turning red at the admission, especially when Allura coos at him happily.

“That’s wonderful, Shiro!” She grasps his hand, squeezing it slightly before sitting back. “Do you think he likes you?”

“I’m… not sure,” he admits. They haven’t spent that much time together.

“He’s _totally_ into him. You should’ve _seen_ the eyes they were giving each other before I interrupted them,” Pidge answers, not taking her eyes off of the menu. She looks up suddenly, smirking. “But get this Keith— it’s _Lance._ ”

“What? Shiro, _seriously?_ ” Keith objects, dropping his phone to the table.

“What? What’s wrong with Lance?” He asks, taking moderate offense.

“He’s obnoxious on a good day,” Keith says, and Allura makes a noise of understanding.

“If I remember correctly, he _was_ quite a flirt, but by the end of university, he was actually sweet. He still talks to my uncle Coran often.”

“Has everyone here met Lance?” Shiro asks, feeling robbed somehow. All his friends knew Lance all this time? Nobody thought to introduce them? Did no one know his type??

“He was in our circles, though I never met him personally. Hunk talked about him a lot,” Pidge explains. “You were already graduated.”

“Of all the people, Shiro,” Keith says, with feeling.

“Keith is _exaggerating._ They were school rivals, that’s all. Keith had a soft spot for Lance, he just won’t admit it,” Allura says.

Keith crosses his arms, but doesn’t refute the accusation.

“Are you going to ask him on a date?” Allura asks, rerouting the conversation.

“Absolutely not,” Shiro answers, and everyone at the table groans. “What? I don’t… have the time for it, not really.

“Don’t you think that’s a problem?” Keith asks, concern etched on his features. “You gotta live, Shiro.”

“I agree with Keith,” Allura says, “it’s not right for you to be working all the time like that. I know I’m not exactly the best person to be saying that, but do as I say, and not as I do.”

Shiro gives her a sympathetic look and then sighs.

“You guys are right, but I just— I don’t know if it’s the right time.”

The conversation lulls into silence at that.

“But Lance though?” Keith asks, and everyone starts speaking at once.

 

...

 

Despite Shiro’s insistence of it ‘not being the right time’, he sure is making it hard on himself.

He’s been looking at Lance’s hastily scribbled post-it note for what seems like five hours now, but in reality has been five minutes. He told Shiro to text him, but that could mean anything!

Now that he thinks about it, that seems unreasonable. You don’t ask a person to text you unless… you want them to text you.

Right? That’s how that goes. He’s almost certain.

Ugh, he’s never been this indecisive before.

He opens up a new message, types in the number and thinks about how to greet Lance.

“Hey… Lance… it’s Shiro…,” he says aloud, as he taps the text out. “Too formal?”

“Yo, Lance— _no._ ”

“Lance, hello.”

“Catering? I like… food. What— even is that, Shiro?”

He lets his head fall to his desk at that last one, hitting his forehead against the cool surface slightly.

Sitting up, he straightens his shoulders and furrows his brows. He can do this.

**Shiro:** _I heard from a reliable source that I could get some good catering from this number._

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it, breathing deeply as he sets his phone down. Going back to what he was doing before he spotted Lance’s number on the neon yellow note, he figures it’ll take some time before—

His phone alerts him to a new text message.

**Lance** : _ur source didn’t let you down. we got the goods nobody else does_

Shiro laughs, picking up his phone.

**Shiro:** _How much for a Christmas party?_

**Lance:** _depends. u got a theme?_

**Lance:** _bls don’t say ‘Maui Wowie’_

**Shiro:** _Damn. I guess I should put the leis away before Christmas. Badum-tshh._

**Lance:** _stop making funny jokes this early in the morning_

**Shiro:** _Hate to break it to you, but it’s literally almost 6pm. Also,_ _I can’t help that I was born like this._

**Lance:** _born ruining my life?????_

**Shiro:** _Significantly improving the lives of everyone around me._

**Lance:** _we stan a confident queen. i can help u pick some things. can u meet me at the café?_

**Shiro:** _Just tell me when._

 

**…**

 

The door rings it’s customary greeting as he enters the café. It’s quiet again— not a soul in sight, but— to be fair— it’s the second time he’s come here so late. It sounded busy enough over the phone earlier.

“Don’t leave!” an unfamiliar voice shouts from the back, and Shiro almost laughs. It seems this is always going to be the way he’s welcomed to the store.

“Hello! Sorry, I’m here!”

That isn’t Lance.

“You must be Hunk,” Shiro says, holding his hand above the counter for a handshake. The stranger takes his hand in both of his, shaking enthusiastically.

“That’d be me— let me guess… Shiro?” Hunk asks, stepping back and smiling at him. He has a very kind face, richly colored, dark eyes that shine almost amber in the warm lighting. There’s a headband tied around his hair, attempting to keep his nearly black bangs from his vision. (It’s not working entirely in his favor.)

“Yes. It’s nice to meet you— I’ve heard a lot about you,” Shiro says.

“From Lance?” Hunk asks, raising a thick brow.

“Yes, and also from my friend and employee, Pidge.”

“Dude! I didn’t know you knew Pidge. We go way back! So she’s working for you, huh? Doing great stuff, so I hear!”

“We’re trying our best,” Shiro says, trying to be humble.

“That’s all you can ask, buddy,” Hunk says, reaching over the counter to slap him on the shoulder in good nature.

“Shiro! I didn’t hear you come in,” Lance interrupts from the doorway into the kitchens. He pulls out his headphones, hanging them around his neck. He beckons Shiro with his hand, saying, “Come on back.”

“Back… there?” Shiro asks, glancing at Hunk, who hasn’t taken offense to the suggestion.

“Yes— I have way too many things to prepare before I leave, _and_ it’ll be a good opportunity to have a look at some of the foods you can have at the Christmas party. I _might_ also be using you for free work.”

“Always a catch,” Shiro comments, stepping behind the counter. He doesn’t mind, though. He likes keeping busy.

“Don’t let him bully you around,” Hunk says, pulling out cups to restock.

“Hunk!” Lance yelps in faux outrage as he goes around the corner, Shiro following closely behind. “How dare you imply that I’m capable of that sort of thing! I have done nothing wrong, ever, in my life!” Lance winks at Shiro.

“I know this and I love you!” Hunk yells from the front, and Lance laughs, pulling at what Shiro believes is the door to the freezer. “Hold this.”

Shiro obliges, holding the door open as Lance grabs things from the shelves until his arms are completely full. He runs out, teeth clacking together.

“These need to thaw,” Lance mentions as he dumps them on the counter across from the freezer door. “I’ll look at them later.”

Shiro nearly startles when Lance grasps the crook of his prosthetic arm, guiding him through to an office in the back. It has Lance’s name written on a plaque, and Lance opens the door.

“You can drop your stuff here,” Lance says, bending to write something on a piece of paper. Shiro shuffles inside, setting his briefcase on a stack of boxes and removing his pea coat to hang beside Lance’s jacket.

Lance’s office is small, but cute. There’s an older model computer wheezing along as it idles, the words ‘see you space cowboy…’ floating across the screen, back and forth. There are papers everywhere, post-it notes and pictures of what Shiro assumes is Lance’s family. He has a lot of them, from the looks of it— adults and children smiling with Lance in pictures strewn throughout the office.

A collection of Star Wars figurines line a shelf, and Shiro smiles at the personalization. This is a little snippet of what Lance values, what he deems personal enough to keep in his space when he’s away from home.

Lance straightens, and turns, almost running into Shiro.

“Sorry,” he says, touching Shiro’s forearms to brace himself.

“It’s okay,” Shiro murmurs, looking down at him softly. They stay there for several long moments, until Shiro clears his throat.

“So… you going to put me to work?”

“Oh, you’re not getting out of it that easily,” Lance comments, shoving Shiro towards the door playfully.

Shiro is forced to stand back away from the table while Lance sets everything up for them to start. There’s a floured surface, dough that’s already risen, chocolate and cinnamon and butter and tools that are just above on the shelves for easy access.

It already smells delicious and it hasn’t even been put together.

“Alright,” Lance says, washing his hands in the sink by the table and motioning for Shiro to do the same. “I’ll run you through what we’re doing and then we can talk shop.”

Rolling his sleeves up, Shiro washes his hands as told.

“Oops, well, let me get you an apron so you don’t ruin your fancy pants,” Lance says. He disappears for a moment, coming back with a black, full body apron. He unfolds it, lifting the top string over Shiro’s head for him.

Shiro sucks in a breath when Lance moves around behind him, slipping his arms around Shiro’s waist to reach for the waist strings. He pulls them tightly around, cinching them into a knot at the back.

“Thanks,” Shiro says, feeling winded, rubbing his hands down the apron to straighten it out.

“My pleasure.” Lance winks at him. “Ready to start?”

Lance goes through the motions, pointing at different objects and carefully explaining each step before he sets Shiro to it. Honestly, Shiro learns things quickly, but Lance’s instructions are full of care and dedication to his craft and it makes the experience less like a drill and more like fun. Watching his face as he speaks is far too easy for Shiro. He _really_ does wear his heart in his eyes.  

He _loves_ what he does, and puts all his passion into making each item. His hands know these steps, inside and out.

With soft Christmas music filtering through the speakers, the gentle hum of the preheating oven and ventilation fans, it’s nothing for Shiro to relax. Once he gets to making a few pastries, it’s soothing going through the steps— kneading and flipping and flouring. Work doesn’t even exist in this space.

They move from one item to the next, setting things aside, for baking or more prep, on tiered baking racks. Hunk flits in and out, pushing things into the oven and removing them whenever the oven goes off.

Lance lets him taste the creations that they finish, marking on a piece of paper which ones Shiro enjoys and which ones he’s not so into, but doesn’t mind. Hunk joins them to discuss pricing and packages, leaving them once again when Shiro has chosen enough items to make a Christmas party work.

“Hey,” Lance says as they finish another rack, and Shiro looks over, only to get a face full of flour for his efforts.

He opens his mouth slightly, breathing out heavily (a puff of flour dispersing into the air) and wiping at his eyes. When he opens them, Lance is trying not to laugh at him.

Shiro smiles, hoping it looks at threatening as it feels, and Lance throws his hands up.

A second later he shrieks when Shiro grabs a handful of flour and yanks at the top of his shirt, throwing the flour into the space there. Some of it clouds up into Lance’s face, and he sputters, waving his arms around.

“Oh, it’s on!” Lance yells, grabbing flour right from the bag and throwing it. Shiro dodges, sweeping up a handful and chucking it at him. Lance blinks, hair almost as white as Shiro’s.

Back and forth they go, laughing and ducking and making a mess. They’re so caught up in it, they don’t even notice Hunk walking in.

“What’s going on—” Hunk gets cut off by flour right to the face.

“Oops! Sorry Hunk, I was trying to hit Shiro!” Lance says, and Hunk wipes at his face, laughing.

“Good throw, buddy, but you’re so going to complain about cleaning this up later.”

Lance looks around, making a face at the disaster around them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” Shiro placates. He licks his own lips and grimaces.

“What a saint!” Lance teases, and Hunk grabs a towel, disappearing into his office with a bemused grin on his face.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Shiro grabs Lance by the waist, reaching into the flour bag and shaking a handful over him as if it were snowing.

...

They clean in relative silence, glancing at each other every so often.

“It’s getting late,” Lance says, straightening his spine with a pop, after they clean up as much as they can. “I’ve held you prisoner long enough, I think.”

Shiro removes his phone from his back pocket, checking the time. It’s almost two in the morning. It’s not like he wouldn’t have been up for some reason or another, and he doesn’t even feel bad that he spent his time here. He feels completely at ease, and… at least he hasn’t been alone.

“This has been… really nice,” he admits, and Lance’s soft smile makes him feel like pressing a hand to his chest, just to tamper the beat of his own heart.

“You hold a lot of tension in your shoulders,” Lance replies, moving behind him again to the undo the knot of his apron. He moves back around and Shiro obliges him by bending to let him pull the apron from over his head. “Relaxation looks good on you.”

God, Shiro doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Being around Lance is addictive.

...

**Lance:** _ic ant breathe_

**Shiro:** _What? Are you okay? Do I need to call someone?_

**Lance:** _IM FINE i just... pet so many puppies_

**Shiro:** _I’ll save my heart attack for later, then._

**Lance:** _whoops! my bad shiro!! but also? puppies_

**Lance:** _[video of puppies running all over Lance with Sia’s ‘Puppies Are Forever’ playing over it]_

**Shiro:** _ic ant breathe_

...

**Shiro:** _Are you awake?_

**Lance:** _physically, yes. mentally? ur guess is as good as mine._

**Shiro:** _I’m stuck on something at work. I needed a break._

**Lance:** _aww, i’m so glad i’m ur “text whenever and they’ll probably answer” buddy. pink wrote a song about that_

**Shiro:** _If it makes you feel better, you also text me “whenever” and I usually answer._

**Lance:** _damb u right_

**Shiro:** _What are you up to?_

**Lance:** _full on spa treatment for myself. there’s a reason my skin is so beautiful and it’s not genetics, i’ll tell u that much_

**Shiro:** _Mine is genetics._

**Lance:** _i’m going to resent you forever just for that. i can’t believe you’ve done this._

**Lance:** _but seriously, take a break dude! youre human you deserve rest_

...

 

Shiro makes it a habit to go to the café over the next couple of weeks— feeling relief and comfort from long days and lonely nights when he sees Lance, who makes him laugh and forget whatever it is that was bothering him before he walked in the door. When he can’t visit, he texts, or Lance texts him. The conversations range from silly and nonchalant to intensely deep, though Shiro notices that Lance tries to soothe over the honesty with humor.

“Back again, Shiro?” Hunk asks, as he straightens his display from behind the counter. “Third time this week, and it’s Wednesday.”

“What can I say? Good food and good company,” Shiro says, hanging his coat on the rack by the door. He makes his way to the counter, watching Hunk add some macarons to the display.

“New flavor?”

“Yeah,” Hunk confirms, “I’m really anxious about it? Like, I think I got the recipe right, but I’m not gonna know until I get some opinions on it that aren’t from, like, me. Or Lance, who can eat straight garbage without flinching.”

“I’ll take some for the office then,” Shiro says, and Hunk clutches his chest.

“Geez. You are just way too nice, man. Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Shiro affirms.

Hunk boxes up a mixture of them and puts them in a bag, rings Shiro’s regular coffee up too, giving him a discount even though Shiro protests.

“I’ll go get Lance,” Hunk says, when he’s done, winking at him.

What does _that_ mean? Is he _that_ obvious?

When Hunk comes back, Lance is on his heels, bouncing up to the counter.

“Our number one customer!” Lance says loudly, stopping himself to look around Shiro’s shoulder. “After you, of course, Mrs. Moontow!”

Mrs. Moontow, whose shoulders had deflated, brightens at the words.

“Sorry,” Lance says to Shiro quietly, ducking his head.

“I can deal with the number two customer title, if it makes Mrs. Moontow happy,” Shiro says, and Lance laughs.

“Want your regular?”

“Yeah, Hunk rang it up for me, but—”

“I know how you like it,” Lance finishes for him. “It’s perfectly fine to admit.”

“I’d rather not.”

Lance turns on his heel, laughter following him to the coffee machines.

When he gets back, he hands Shiro his order in a to-go cup.

“You’re not joining me?” Shiro asks, before he can stop himself. It sounds presumptuous of him, but usually, since that first night, Lance has joined him at his table with his own cup.

“Actually, I was thinking about you joining _me_ as I go buy some decor for your Christmas party,” Lance says, typing something into the register and scanning his manager’s card.

Unexpected, but not a terrible way to spend his time. Fortunately for him, he’s his own boss, so he can make his own lunch hours.

“Sure,” he agrees, letting Lance lead the way.

They’re in walking distance of most stores from here, and Lance seems to know where he’s going, so Shiro follows.

They end up at a Party City, and Lance grabs a cart, looking around in excitement.

“I love this place! Look at all the Christmas stuff!”

Shiro is looking. It’s literally everywhere.

“So, I wanted to forego the whole green and red thing cause it’s overdone. I was thinking about more of a red, white, and green-tinted blue? It’s very ‘aesthetic’!” Lance says, pushing the cart and scrolling through his phone at the same time. How he’s steering is a mystery, but he doesn’t even hit anything.

“I trust you,” Shiro says, knowing he’s speaking in general. Lance has that sort of character, and it shows in everything that he does. From bringing Shiro food and coffee at work to offering sincere advice and solidarity to anything Shiro even _hints_ at being an issue in his life, it’s all there in how he acts. He’s a _genuinely_ good person, and he acts like he doesn’t even _know._

_Does_ he know?

“Lance,” Shiro says, cutting him off mid-ramble. Lance looks up from his phone, questioning. “You’re a good person.”

“What? You stop that.” Lance flushes.

“You’re a good person. You know that, right? I like being around you because you’re a good person. You’re nice to be around,” Shiro says, being as sincere as possible, and Lance looks away. His features look anxious at the attention, and Shiro can’t help but wonder why.

He notices Shiro’s concern and perks up, but it seems forced when he says, “Of course I’m fun to be around! I’ve got it going on!”

“Lance,” he prods, lifting his brows at him.

“I-I do! I…,” he shrugs, “Thank you for, you know, saying that.” He looks small and far away.

“It’s okay to accept a compliment that’s true,” Shiro placates, and Lance nods quickly, clearly uncomfortable. Though his blushing face is undeniably cute, Shiro won’t push him. “I do like the red, white, and blue idea.”

“G-good,” Lance stammers, trying to gain his footing again. He runs a hand through his hair. “Um, so— WOAH. Look at these ‘staches! I gotta take a picture for Coran!”

There are rows of Christmas colored mustache-glasses and Santa beards, and Lance goes for an orange and white striped mustache immediately. He turns to Shiro, shooting finger-guns at him and laughing.

“Take a picture for me!”

Shiro obliges, of course, finding himself smiling along as each picture gets increasingly more goofy as he goes. He’s so cute, and Shiro is lost in it. He’s lost in how exuberant Lance is as he goes through the pictures with Shiro, snorting at himself. He’s lost in how loving he looks as he talks about Coran, his uncle away from home, as he calls him.

“Your turn!” Lance takes the phone and picking out a Santa beard for Shiro before he can protest. Shiro gives it his all, posing just as seriously as Lance had (meaning, he definitely made a gun with his hands, Charlie’s Angels style.)

“I’m totally setting this one as your contact picture,” Lance cackles.

“Send me one of you, then?” Shiro asks.

“Only if you set it as your phone wallpaper.” Lance wiggles his brows at him. Still, Shiro’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He opens the photo, eyes crinkling as he looks at the one Lance chose for him.

He sets it as his phone wallpaper, despite the joke, showing it to Lance.

“Wow, you actually did it,” Lance says, staring at it for a moment. He meets Shiro’s eyes, as if he’s trying to figure something out.

“It’s a great picture,” Shiro praises. Is Lance reading him like an open book? Does he _want_ him to? In the end, Lance smiles at him and puts his phone away, grabbing the cart with purpose.

“Alright, let’s go get some more party stuff. How do you feel about balls?”

Shiro almost drops his phone.

…

 

It’s not raining, but it might as well be for how crappy Shiro feels. It’s been literal _days_ since he’s been able to go to the café— not to say that’s why he feels like crap. Well, it most definitely is, but he doesn’t want to think about that too hard. He just likes Hunks cinnamon rolls a lot. There’s no other reason.

(There is.)

Today, though, had been problem after problem presenting themselves— snags with accounts and potential business partners that were sorted out only _after_ Shiro had damn near ripped his own hair out in frustration. (The partnership with Slav? He’s probably going to regret it, but that guy is a veritable genius and they can’t afford to part ways with him. As much as Shiro really, _really_ wants to.)

Now, to end the day, he’s walking as quickly as his aching feet can carry him, just to see if he can make it to the café before closing. Lance usually keeps the café open just a tad bit longer than he should, maybe he’s still th— _maybe Hunk’s cinnamon rolls are still there._

He’s rounding the corner when he sees the lights on the café go out, and he starts to full on jog (a great, but necessary sacrifice).

There Lance is, twisting the key into the lock.

Shiro slows, shoulders falling. He tries to quash the quelling disappointment. —over… Hunk’s… cinnamon rolls. Did he mention the cinnamon rolls?

Lance turns and jolts in surprise. He slaps his keys to his chest.

“Stooop. I could’ve dropped my croissant!” Lance whines, and Shiro looks at the packaged chocolate croissant in his other hand.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, and Lance laughs, slapping his arm.

“I’m just kidding— haven’t seen you in a bit, big guy,” Lance says, and Shiro decides to say screw it and look his fill.

It’s been a few days since he’s seen Lance, since he watched his nose wrinkle like that. The sincerity in his expression is a million times better than any well-meaning smile he gets at the office. He’s a sight for sore eyes, is what he is. It feels like it’s been _weeks._

“Work,” Shiro eventually says, grumbling something to himself even _he_ barely understands. Lance grins, shoving the croissant at him unexpectedly. He fumbles to catch it. Now _he’s_ the one who could’ve dropped his croissant.

“It’s still warm,” Lance says. “It’ll make you feel better. Chocolate, you know. Helps with the Dementors.”

“Oh, is that so?” Shiro asks, understanding the reference and opening the package. He leans over it to draw in the scent.

“100% fact, no fiction,” Lance agrees. He watches Shiro take a bite of the pastry.

Shiro closes his eyes at the burst of flavors— buttery, sugary, flaky warmth that sings to his soul, if he’s being honest. He opens his eyes, catching Lance biting his lip nervously.

“Uh,” he straightens up when he notices Shiro looking, “Like it? Hunk has apparently improved his recipe.”

“Yeah. If I weren’t already married to your coffee recipe, I might just have to make an honest woman out of Hunk.”

“Don’t tell Hunk that. I’m pretty sure he thinks you descended to us from Heaven.”

Shiro almost spits his croissant out, clearing his throat after he swallows roughly.

“What?”

“Stop being so humble. I bet people fawn over you wherever you go,” Lance says. “Everyone at the café loooves you.”

_Even you?_ Shiro doesn’t ask. Instead he takes the last bite of his croissant, dropping the package in a trash bin as they walk. He doesn’t exactly know when they started moving, but their pace is sedate and without clear intent.

“It’s the weekend, right? Saturday?” Lance asks suddenly. Shiro nods, thinking about how much he’s going to sleep in tomorrow. It’s going to be a long time and it’s going to be aggressive.

“I was gonna get a drink at this bar I go to—” Lance stops walking, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you wanna join me?”

Shiro’s heart revs at the simple words, though his face remains neutral.

“I don’t, uh, have much to do tonight that can’t be pushed to tomorrow,” he answers. “Sounds fun.”

Nailed it.

“Awesome! It’s not too far from here— pretty convenient, if I do say so myself.” Lance has a look on his face that says he’s proud of himself. That’s a face he wears often. It’s pretty endearing, especially when Shiro knows he’s not 100% confident in himself, the way he _acts_ he is.

Honestly, Shiro is not too confident right now either. Does this count as a date? It’s been a long time since he’s been formally asked on a date, so he’s not quite sure if this is supposed to be one.

He’s floundering here.

Alright. He’s just going to go and enjoy the extra time he gets to have with Lance, and that’s it. He’s not going to second-guess anything or embarrass himself in an attempt to seem like a well put-together human being.

...

He’s embarrassing himself in an attempt to seem like a well put-together human being.

It was a culmination of events that led to Shiro’s demise (or his sobriety’s demise, rather). It started with the accidental press of Lance’s frame against his. The bar is relatively crowded, an elbows-brushing sort of night, and Lance had, despite his lithe (and entirely too flexible) frame, been forced closer and closer to Shiro until there was no space at all between them.

He’d apologized, but also didn’t act like it was that much of a big deal (their thighs pressing together, the warmth from Lance’s body mingling with his own, Lance’s fingers catching at his lower back for balance as he leaned over the bar to catch the bartender’s attention), and so of course Shiro wasn’t going to make it a big deal.

It progressed with Lance asking what he wanted to drink, and Shiro, being a big, dumb idiot, said, “Water?”

All Lance had to do was throw up a pointedly arched brow, and shape his lips into something dangerous and smarmy, and Shiro’s eyes narrowed of their own volition. The challenge… it had been initiated. 

There’s a reason Shiro doesn’t drink and that reason is that he is notoriously _bad_ with alcohol. He’s never been a substance-using type of person, likes his mental clarity and being at the top of his game 100% of the time. Maybe it’s because he was in the military and understands the importance of full cognitive control, or maybe it’s just his personality.

AND YET— here he is, downing another shot like a dudebro at a fraternity or Susan, from accounting. (Let it not be said that Susan doesn’t go HORD.)

Here he _also_ is… standing and making his way over to the karaoke setup as Lance hoots and hollers his approval from the crowd.

Shiro has made _so_ many mistakes in his life, but he’s about to make his biggest, most likely.

“This was a dare,” he announces when he gets to the mic (holding onto it for comfort), knowing his face is ruddy red with nerves, “so you’re legally obligated not to laugh at me.”

The crowd laughs anyway, and he points at them, raising his brows as if to say, ‘you’re already doing it and I’m disappointed in your disobedience.’

They laugh again, but this time it’s drowned out by the music starting.

Shiro squints in the lighting to find Lance, who waves at him enthusiastically from his spot at the bar.

“You’re just too good to be true,” Shiro begins shakily (almost missing the intro into the song), grabbing the mic from the stand and removing it, “Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

He walks around the small stage to the beat, crooning into the mic as he shakes off the nerves. He’s not terribly confident about his singing, but he knows it’s not the worst either.

“At long last, love has arrived. I thank God I’m alive. You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,” Shiro sings, winking at Lance, whose jaw has dropped.

Serves him right for doubting Shiro. He thought he’d get a laugh out of it, but Shiro doesn’t do things half-ass. He whole-asses _everything._

The song picks up tempo, and he starts swinging his arms, adding a complicated little number with his feet as he sings. Lance’s nose is scrunched as he laughs, alternating his shoulders back and forth as he dances along. Shiro’s heart flips and he urges the crowd to participate by clapping, until the song switches back to the lower vibe.

The enthusiasm from the crowd (and maybe the alcohol and _definitely_ Lance) has him feeling more confident, and he’s actually having fun with this. He’d never have done this without Lance urging him on— and it doesn’t feel unnatural.

He didn’t use to be that way— boring, essentially a workaholic. He was actually daring and willing to have fun. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but he’s realizing now just how small his world has become since he started his company.

“—You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off you.”

The song swings back into an upbeat tune, and Shiro notices the crowd eating it up, clapping and singing along without prompt. He dances down the stairs, making his way through the parting people to the bar, singing to Lance as he goes.

He dances around him, holding a hand out and spinning Lance around into his arms when he stands. Lance can’t help the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest, swaying with Shiro as he moves from side-to-side.

“—and let me love you, baby, let me love youuu,” Shiro finishes, depositing Lance back onto stool with grace and ease.

The bar breaks out into cheers and hoots, and Shiro goes back to the drop off the mic, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears in embarrassment as he leaves the stage.

Another song starts as he makes his way back to Lance, and he feels his heartbeat calming. Lance throws his arms up when Shiro gets there.

“That,” he yells, “was amazing!!”

“Thanks,” he says, even though his face is still on fire. The heat he’s emitting with this blush should be cause for concern.

“I didn’t know you had it in you,” Lance says, leveling him with a sly look.

“I have several shots in me, is what I have,” Shiro replies.

“Another!!” Lance shouts, spinning around in his stool and slapping the counter with his open palm a few times.

“Another!!!” the other bar patrons shout, and Shiro laughs out loud, completely not expecting it.

“I guess you do come here a lot,” Shiro takes the shot glass Lance gives him. “Kanpai.”

“ _Kanpai!!_ ” Everyone echoes, including Lance. He tips his head back and makes the funniest face as he drinks his vodka down the hatch. “Hrkkgh, that never gets _any_ better.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Shiro says, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “God, I’m hot. Are you hot?”

“I’m smokin’,” Lance says, pointing two finger guns at Shiro and making little ‘pow pow’ sound effects as he ‘shoots’. “...No, but it’s actually really hot. Let’s go outside?”

“Sounds good,” Shiro agrees, letting Lance intertwine their fingers as he pulls Shiro through the swaying crowd. He can’t imagine that it feels nice holding his hand. He knows his palm must be sweaty, both with nerves and his metabolism burning off the alcohol, but Lance doesn’t let go…

… that is, until the cold air slaps them across the face as they push through the door.  

Lance yelps, trying to turn back into the warmth of the bar, but he runs into Shiro’s chest instead. He looks up at Shiro in surprise, and then starts laughing as he realizes what happened.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t move, instead burrowing further into Shiro’s chest. “Portable heater.”

“I’ll add it to my resume,” Shiro mentions, and maybe it’s the liquid courage or he’s _just_ tired enough of being lonely tonight, but he wraps his arms around Lance, using the cold as an excuse to keep him close.

“Thanks,” Lance murmurs, resting his head against Shiro’s shoulder.

Shiro runs his hands along Lance’s back, relishing the contact. Has it been so long since he’s let anyone into his space like this? He’s never considered himself touch averse, but, as he tightens his arms, he’s thinking that maybe that’s exactly the way he’s been.

Shiro has always liked being in control, but something about this situation, which has him feeling more like a boat in a treacherous sea with no captain at the helm, makes him want to relinquish his tight hold on the reigns. It’s a scary sensation, like if he makes one wrong move, it’ll be too late to make it right. But if he makes the right move… well, color him curious.

“We probably shouldn’t stay out here too long,” Shiro suggests, and Lance vibrates against him with laughter.

“Walk me home, then?” Lance asks, looking up at him again. His cheeks are tinged pink, most likely a mixture of the alcohol and the cold, and he’s batting his eyelashes at Shiro jokingly.

Shiro could lean down and kiss him, if he wanted and—oh, he _wants._ He doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Sure,” Shiro complies, swallowing heavily as Lance pulls away.

“I’ll get our jackets,” Lance says, and he’s off.  

...

Shiro is disappointed in himself. Mostly because this could’ve been avoided. He knows better than to walk around in cold temperatures while he’s already running on fumes. He’s usually a lot more responsible than this.

Alas. He was being pathetic. He can admit that much.

It… might’ve been worth it, though.

(It was 100% worth it.)

He supposes he could’ve caught worse than a common cold, but he still feels like shit.

Sniffling, he checks his refrigerator for the tenth go around. There’s not anything in there this time either. He rolls his eyes, sighing.

Coffee it is.

He’s standing by the coffee maker, barely registering his surroundings while it percolates, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

**Lance:** _u up for some last minute decisions for catering?_

Shiro groans, leaning against the counter for strength. He _wants_ to be up for it, but he’s responsible enough now (without alcohol and desire influencing his decisions) that he has to say no.

**Shiro:** _I wish I were. I’m a little under the weather. :(_

He’s barely sent the text when his phone buzzes again.

**Lance:** _wat?!!?!!!!!!! why didn’t you tell me?? u ok?_

**Shiro:** _It’s just a cold. Stood outside too long, I think._

**Lance:** _well now i feel responsible for ur pain. txt me ur address._

Shiro hums, reading the text again. Does Lance want to come over? What is _with_ Lance and seeing him at his absolute worst?

It’s not like he has to say yes, it’s just that he absolutely does. He _wants_ to see Lance, God help him. He wants to see Lance _all the time._

Texting his address, he drops his phone to the counter when the coffee maker beeps.

After he takes a few sips, he looks at the state of his house and panics. He picks up what he can, clears up his takeout mess, and fiddles with his hair in the mirror until there’s a knock at his door. Good, he was just about to admit defeat on looking presentable anyway. Also, he’s _exhausted._

When the door swings open, Lance looks up, smiling from behind a deep blue scarf. “Hey,” Lance greets softly, and Shiro takes him in. His nose is red, like he’s been out in the cold for a while, and his coat is way too big for his frame. Bags from the store down the street are hanging from his arms.

“Come in,” Shiro says, when he remembers that leaning down to kiss Lance isn’t an appropriate greeting.

Lance toes his shoes off by Shiro’s at the door, shuffling inside and placing his bags on the counter connecting the living room and the kitchen. It’s concerning how endearing Shiro finds it that Lance makes himself at home in any space he happens to be in.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Lance reprimands, though not judgmentally. He’s more distressed than anything— it’s written all over his features. “Go lie down.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Shiro says, sniffling. He grabs the cover he’s been using all morning, pulling it over himself as he reclines.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna use your kitchen,” Lance says from a distance, and Shiro grunts his affirmative.

It’s midday, but Shiro has no problem letting the far-away noises of Lance moving around his apartment lull him into a cat nap. Vaguely, he’s aware of Lance humming. He hasn’t had many other people in his apartment, but the extra presence is really welcome.

He doesn’t know how long he’s slept when he feels a hand on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he takes in Lance’s concerned face, feeling something take root deep in his chest.

“Hey. I didn’t mean to wake you. You’ve got a fever,” Lance says, moving his hand down to check Shiro’s cheeks for heat as well. “You can go back to sleep.”

Shiro shuts his eyes. He breathes in deeply.

When he wakes again, it’s to Lance pressing a cool towel against his forehead. He’s humming again. It’s a song that sounds familiar, but he can’t place it.  

“How do you feel?” Lance asks, when he realizes Shiro is watching him.

“M’tired,” Shiro answers, honestly. He feels a little better, though, and he says as much. Lance nods, his hip warm against Shiro’s where he sits on the edge of the couch.

“I made some food. Think you can stomach some? It’s Sopa de Pollo— nothing too fancy,” Lance explains, running a hand through his own hair as he stands.

“Sounds good.” Shiro smiles, sitting up slowly.

Lance returns a few minutes later with his arms full. How he’s balancing all that at once is beyond Shiro, but when he tries to stand to help, Lance stops him.

“Abup bup bup! Don’t even think about it,” he says, somehow managing to set down everything without spilling it.

Shiro eyes in him amusement as he sets everything up.

“So we have Sopa de Pollo—” he points at the soup in the middle, “—chamomile tea for those aches and pains, some Powerade just in case, cause like, I don’t want you to dehydrate or anything.” He rubs at his neck, and Shiro recognizes the nervous tic for what it is.

“This is great, Lance. Did you make this just now?”

“It took a bit longer than I wanted it to, but you were sleeping anyway,” Lance says. He waves his hand. “Anyway, go ahead and start eating!”

“You’re not having any?” Shiro asks, pausing mid-reach.

“Nope! All of it is for you, so you can get better,” Lance says, sitting down beside him as if the single act isn’t horse-kicking Shiro in the chest. He reaches for Shiro’s remote, turning the TV on. Logging into Netflix with his own account, he selects something called _Parks and Recreation_ and turns the volume on low.

The bowl of soup is warm and comforting in Shiro’s hands, and it looks (and smells) delicious. There are bite-size pieces of chicken, potatoes, noodles, and assorted herbs and spices.

He takes a sip, sighing after he swallows.

“Is this what you have when you’re sick?” Shiro asks, genuinely enjoying it.

“Mmhmm. Mama used to make it for us, and then she made _us_ make it for our siblings whenever one of us was sick,” Lance says, smiling something sweet. “The other kids didn’t want to do it, but I… I always liked making it— it felt like a ritual that would somehow cure whoever was sick, ya know?”

“I don’t have any siblings,” Shiro says, “and my parents were gone a lot, so I never really had anything traditional like that.”

“Fuck. Shiro, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Shiro interrupts, “I appreciate you sharing this with me.”

“O-oh, it’s… It’s no big deal.” He shrugs, but the way he blushes all the way down his neck says otherwise. His lips curl into something small and pleased, and Shiro is struck by the desire to know how that would feel against his mouth.

They sit in silence for awhile as Shiro eats, watching but not really taking in the show.

“You don’t have a Christmas tree,” Lance mentions. Shiro looks around at his bare living room, just stopping himself from wincing. He hasn’t had much time to personalize this space. He doesn’t really know how he _would_ personalize if he could. He’s been on autopilot for a long time now.

“I suppose I didn’t see the point,” he admits.

“I guess your parents weren’t big on Christmas either?” Lance asks, approaching the topic gingerly.

“We had a small tree— exchanged gifts when we could. What about your family?”

“Oh man. I have so many family members. Christmas is chaos. So much food. People talking over each other, kids trying to play with each other’s presents. All the adults stay up to drink spiked eggnog and crap talk,” Lance gushes. “I love when we’re all together.”

Shiro wonders what it would be like to spend that sort of Christmas with Lance.

It leaves him aching.

 

…

 

**Lance:** _u feelin better?_

**Shiro:** _Yes. Thank you again for taking care of me. And cleaning up when I fell asleep again. And buying me Vicks?_

**Lance:** _ur welcome :) slather that shit on your feet before bed and then wear socks_

**Shiro:** _What?_

**Lance:** _its ancient santeria passed down by generations of women from my mama’s side of the family. dont question it_

**Shiro:** _That’s vaguely threatening._

**Lance:** _i said dont question it :)_

 

…

 

**Lance:** _did you get my package??_

**Shiro:** _Yes, I did._

**Lance:** _i hope i didn’t overstep?_

**Shiro:** _No. It really warms my living room._

**Lance:** _i thought white lights would look best in your living room_

**Shiro:** _You’ll have to help me decorate it. It’s a big tree._

**Lance:** _i have contacts all over!! >:) just tell me when. ill bring hot chocolate :) _

 

...

 

Christmas Eve crops up faster than any of them anticipated, especially Shiro. He’s been so preoccupied with Lance that time’s been of little consequence. It’s hard not to let him cloud _all_ of his thoughts.

The office Christmas party is in full swing, decorations (that Shiro recognizes) artfully placed around the office, making it seem brighter and warmer at the same time. There’s fresh coffees and teas, and Hunk has personally lined up plates and plates of food from the café. Everyone is in awe of the display, the chatter reverberating from the office walls.

Pidge has a set up for music and is playing a mix of Christmas tunes and all sorts of decades and genres.

Keith is making his famous spiked punch while Allura entertains guests. She looks beautiful in sparkling white.

Lance has on the mustache and glasses from Party City, laughing with one of Shiro’s employees as he hands her a plate.

All-in-all, everyone looks happy.

Last year’s party was a total bust— the food was terrible, the music wasn’t working, and the decor was almost non-existent.

Shiro needs to thank Lance and Hunk for making it such a success. Lance stayed on him about last minute details and Hunk made a special dessert recipe just for the party.

People have migrated to the dance area when Lance makes his way over, two red solo cups in hand.

“I may not be best friends with Keith, but I could be if he keeps making drinks like this!” Lance shouts over the din, handing Shiro a cup. “Razzle dazzle!”

He downs as much as he can and then comes up for air.

“Whoo!”

Shiro squints.

“Did you just yell... Razzle Dazzle?” he asks.

“Definitely not. So…?” Lance wheedles, shaking his shoulders as he waits for Shiro’s approval.

“It turned out great, Lance. Better than I imagined. Everyone looks happy,” Shiro compliments, and Lance beams at him.

“I know! Even Keith complimented it!” He wiggles a little, and Shiro squashes the urge to do something stupid, like kiss the grin on his lips in front of all his co-workers.

“Yeah, Hunk really worked hard on this,” Shiro teases, instead, and Lance’s mouth drops open. “I’m _kidding._ ”

“Don’t tease a man like that,” Lance says, putting a hand to his chest dramatically.

“But really, you guys did an amazing job. You’re definitely hired for next year,” Shiro jokes, but Lance’s face splits into the biggest grin.

“I accept!” he says. “Also, I need another drink. Be right back.”

Shiro watches him work his way through his crowd of employees, hoping that Lance _will_ be in his life this time next year. So many people have left him, in one way or another. He doesn’t want Lance to be another one who does.

“That’s a sour face,” Allura says, catching him off guard. She smiles sweetly at him, holding her own solo cup.

“Just thinking. Or _over_ thinking, rather. You know me.”

“Yes, I do. I also know that you haven’t asked Lance out yet.” She takes a sip of her drink, eyebrows lifted as she glances at the person in question.

Lance is arguing with Keith, articulating wildly with his hands. Keith doesn’t look angry with him— he looks amused, like he’s having a good time.

“You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?” Allura asks, turning back to him.

He doesn’t take his eyes from Lance.

“Always,” he admits. “He’s a  _really_ good guy. He could have _anyone._ ”

“So could you,” Pidge interrupts as she walks by, slapping him on the arm. “You’re selling yourself short. Nobody is better than anyone else. Remember that!”

She continues on to the table with Keith and Lance, inserting herself into the conversation. Lance starts laughing at whatever she said, nose wrinkling as he holds his stomach. Keith looks put out, so obviously it was a joke at his expense.

“You do deserve someone as lovely as you,” Allura says, “and I think Lance is good for you. You’ve been so happy.”

He has. He has been elated with everything he does. He’s been more social than ever. He’s been very content, and fulfilled in a way that makes him want to hold on tight and never let go.

“I’ll let you think on it,” Allura murmurs, leaving him again.

Shiro sighs, downing his cup of spiked punch.

...

 

Lance goes missing almost at the end of the party, and Shiro finds him outside, admiring the stars.

“You okay?” he asks, and Lance nods, smiling softly.

“I got a little hot while I was dancing. Needed some air,” he explains, looking back at the sky.

Stepping up beside him, Shiro leans against the rail, facing him.

“What are you thinking of?”

Lance grins, eyes finding his.

“You, mostly,” he admits.

Shiro’s stomach plummets like he’s on a roller coaster, bursting into butterflies at the lowest point.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For everything, you know? You could’ve turned me away that first day we met, told me to sit somewhere else, mind my business. I’m pretty good at inserting myself into people’s lives, whether they like it or not. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or not.” The Christmas lights from across the street bathe Lance in warm light, shining in the blue of his eyes. It makes him seem ethereal, and so very vivid here in the dark.

“I’ve had so much fun with you,” he says, looking up at Shiro from under his lashes.

“So have I,” Shiro says, absolutely meaning it.

“Good,” Lance breathes, the warmth of his words turning into steam in the cold air. “We’re friends… right?”

The butterflies turn to lead.

_Friends._

“Of course,” Shiro hears himself say, suddenly feeling very, _very_ stupid.

“Like, you’re not just tolerating me?” Lance asks, sounding far away.

“No,” he answers, absently, standing up straight.  

“I just want to— I mean, you mean a lot—”

“Sorry—” Shiro interrupts, “I forgot about something for work. Would you excuse me?”

“Y-yeah, but Shiro--,” Lance replies, but Shiro is already walking away.

He doesn’t look back to see the look on Lance’s face.

 

...

 

He tells Pidge to lock up after the party.

 

...

  
  
  


He spends his Christmas alone, ignoring the barrage of texts from Lance and eating leftover soup. It tastes bitter on his tongue.

It’s his fault for assuming. He was projecting his feelings and now he’s embarrassed about it, and more than a little heartbroken.

The Christmas tree Lance sent him shimmers on and off, lulling him to sleep.  

 

...

 

**Keith:** _what the fuck happened??_

**Keith:** _stop ignoring everyone, shiro_

**Keith:** _you can’t just work until you die_

**Keith:** _talk to me?_

_…_

 

**Lance:** _i dont know what i did wrong, shiro, but please let me fix it? i can fix it. please._

 

...

 

It’s snowing.

He’s the first one to the office every day, and today is no different. He turns on all the lights, and hangs his pea coat on the rack, going through the motions of starting his day.

It all feels mechanical. This whole damn week has felt that way-- lifeless and dull. He knows exactly why that is.

He’s just settling down into his chair when his door bursts open.

Jumping up, his eyes widen as Lance stomps inside, slamming a to-go coffee on his desk. It splatters everywhere, staining his papers.

He’s about to open his mouth, but Lance beats him to it.

“I don’t understand—,” Lance starts, maneuvering his way around his desk until they’re face to face. “One minute, I think you like me. Like— like maybe more than friends? Because _I_ like you, Shiro, _oh,_ I _like_ you so fucking much— but then another minute I ask if we’re friends and the _second_ the party is over, you stop talking to me? Were you using me for the cateri—”

Shiro has his mouth on Lance’s before he can process it himself.

Lance makes a noise in the back of his throat, something desperate and high-pitched, hands scrabbling for purchase around Shiro’s shoulders as Shiro lifts him to the desk.

Shiro has been thinking about kissing Lance since he quirked his mouth into something smart and confident, and there’s so many times he’s imagined just leaning down and tasting him, or tracing the shape of his lips, but nothing could prepare him for how it actually makes him feel.

Gut-punched, he gets as close as he possibly can, Lance’s thighs bracing his waist, hands clutching at the back of his shirt, pulling at him.  Shiro frames Lance’s face with his hands, licking into the warmth of his mouth, finally _having_ him.

Lance opens up so beautifully for him, tastes like coffee and chocolate syrup. Of _course_ he does.

“I _do_ like you,” Shiro says between kisses, when he has to breathe, “I adore you.”

Lance groans into his mouth, and Shiro swallows the sound, overwhelmed with having and giving, of Lance’s body beneath his hands, of knowing that Lance feels the same way.

Shiro catches a lip between his teeth, hearing the sharp inhale Lance takes through his nose, feeling the minute tremble of his hands on him. He slows it down to something honey-sweet, languid and deep, sharing sighing breaths between them.

All Shiro can think about is Lance and their point of connection, spit-slick lips meeting, tongues meshing, fingers dancing along skin. He doesn’t know how long they spend kissing, he just catalogues the way Lance’s smile feels against his lips, and the sharpness of his teeth against his tongue.

He pulls away slowly, but Lance follows him anyway, extending up, up to kiss him again, subtle touches of mouth against mouth.

Lance finally opens his eyes when Shiro grabs his wrists, pulling his hands to his chest.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Shiro confesses, thinking of how lonely he’s been with the empty space where Lance had been before.

“I almost chickened out,” Lance admits, “but Hunk hyped me up before I came.”

Shiro snorts, bringing his forehead to Lance’s and resting it there.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was using you,” Shiro apologizes. “I was so sure that you were feeling what I was feeling that when you asked if we were friends, I thought I interpreted it all wrong. I let that cloud my judgement.”

“I’m sorry for asking if we were friends, like an idiot. I knew we were _friends,_ what I really wanted to know was if we could be more,” Lance says.

“I want that more than anything,” Shiro tells him, and Lance can’t resist kissing him again.

He pulls away after a moment, “Also, I think your coffee spilled and I’m sitting in it.”

Shiro bursts into laughter.

 

…

 

EPILOGUE, 2 YEARS LATER:

It’s raining outside, when Shiro asks Lance to marry him.

It’s still raining outside two seconds later, when Lance laughs out loud and pulls out the ring he's been hiding from Shiro.  

 


End file.
